


Colours

by covertlys



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Depression, Drug Abuse, Fluff, M/M, suicidal character, temporary character death-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-12 21:40:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7123522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/covertlys/pseuds/covertlys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>an afterthought suddenly hit harry:</i> this is it, this is the part where my life changes forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Colours

**Author's Note:**

> ****  
>    
>  _please read the tags above because i genuinely care about your welfare, dear reader. xxx_   
> 

**blue**

everything is blue.

blue is louis’ eyes – a deep pool of cerulean, with a tinge of green swimming amongst the cool, clear ocean. louis’ eyes have shown him what home is like, and in that moment, he realized he felt so lonely and isolated for a long time.

(he can’t remember a life anymore separated from louis, or before louis happened – and he thinks it’s good that he doesn’t.)

his eyes, when harry looks deeper into them, somehow mirrors his unspoken fears within, tucked deep, deep, deep in the crevices of his mind, which he’s rewritten into something illegible so that they make no sense anymore – a dull murmuring that tends to overflow past the brim in bad days.

in bad days, louis’ eyes are soft, as soft as the warm skies in the middle of june. his eyes are ever so gentle, and harry wants nothing more than let those orbs bore into him forever. he thinks that louis’ eyes are the light that wards off figureless demons hiding behind his chest, constricting his lungs very tightly until he wishes them to _finally finish it already, damnit, it’s too fucking tiring to live another second in this hell_.

louis holds his hands in his, his small but strong hands, and once their eyes meet, harry’s reminded of the reason to continue living this messed-up life.

in those bad days louis’ eyes are his guiding light, reaching out to him patiently, or else he succumbs to the dark abyss of his misery.

 

blue is the mug that holds the warm, sweet tea louis makes him whenever he gets his bad days.

in those bad days, there are no vocal conversations involved. everything is said in sighs, quiet breaths, closed eyes, and calloused hands caressing tensed shoulders. harry tends to stay in his room in bad days, bunched up in blankets and refusing to see the sun as it rises and falls.

in bad days, hours just pass. harry stays underneath the pile of blankets and pillows, refusing to move a single muscle.

if it weren’t for louis, he could’ve died in the room with no one noticing. he’s not saying he minds, though, but louis shouldn’t know that. he has to try, for louis.

when louis comes for him in his room, he always peeks through the door first before entering. once he does, he calls out a soft “come on, love,” before he sits on harry’s bed.

louis reaches for the blankets covering harry from top to bottom, not even harry’s face can be seen poking out. “day sucks, huh?” louis chuckles. he runs his palms through the creases of the blankets, a quiet call for beckoning harry to come out of his cocoon.

harry only sighs deeply in response and scoots closer to louis, until louis can wrap his arm around what seems like harry’s shoulders. harry leans against him.

“come on, babe, let’s have some tea, yeah? that sounds good?” louis offers.

it takes harry several beats to answer with a simple “yeah.”

once harry gets out of his blankets, louis never lets go of his hands on their way to the tiny kitchen-slash-dining room area. he plops down onto his chair, louis following suit. there is already his mug perched on the table in front of him, tea hot and smelling like lemons. harry loves it, and louis knows it. harry loves louis.

he drinks little by little, afraid he might burn his tongue, while louis nurses his own cuppa beside harry. the white fluorescent light above them bathes louis with a heavenly glow. most of the time, harry thinks it’s an understatement. everything he comes up describing louis is an understatement. louis just _is_ , is the thing. he surpasses everything every brilliant mind in this universe can concoct.

he looks at louis, just in time when louis meets his eyes. louis gives him a soft smile, and he loves this the most about him, because every time his mouth curls into a laugh or even the barest hint of a smile, his eyes give all the emotion away. harry can’t help but smile at him, too.

 

blue is the sketchpad harry uses to capture the images his silly mind paints.

it is very obvious that the said sketchpad contains mostly drawings of louis doing different mundane actions, such as watching the telly or reading a book or even writing away in his moleskine. sometimes, louis teases harry to draw him, just for the hell of it, like harry doesn’t even draw him enough. whenever he does, harry always blurts out, “don’t say it, lou, i swear,” and it makes louis giggle, but it does nothing to stop louis from actually saying, “draw me like one of your french girls, harry.” harry can only roll his eyes fondly and actually draw a mini realistic louis on paper.

a long time ago, harry stopped touching the sketchpad, because even though he refuses to call himself an artist, he felt the strong artist’s struggle of being very frustrated over  the things he drew (or, in some occasions, painted). his wallowing in self-pity and anger didn’t help at the time, either.

once upon a time, louis stumbled across harry’s things when they moved in together, and he saw the sketchpad in some box. harry was sure he hid it safe from any instance louis might find it, but then louis proved him otherwise.

(louis has always proved him otherwise in many things.)

when louis found the sketchpad, it welcomed him with three pages full of angry scribbles of charcoal, almost covering the half-attempt of sketch into oblivion. he didn’t approach harry about this immediately though, which harry was very thankful of. if he did, harry could’ve broke down into shame without a rational reason.

when louis did approach harry, he told him that he wants to see even a small effort of sketching from harry, because harry never actually told him about his drawings and he was very curious. harry had been sceptical, of course, but louis had assured him that if he didn’t want to do it, it was fine for him. it was his sketchpad, after all, and louis isn’t ordering him to do anything against his will.

so harry thought about it, and it took him a solid two days to finally get back to his old habits.

it was good that his first sketch was louis, because his hands had been rusted because of not using them for drawing for too long. it was good, because at that time he had already committed louis’ image, gait, and expressions into memory.

he still thinks it was a nice surprise for louis, because after he finished the sketch, he put it in a simple frame and wrapped it with manila paper for their first anniversary. he can’t believe louis was in tears back then, because it was just a very simple sketch of him sitting on the couch while smiling at harry, but it seemed that it mattered more to louis. louis wasn’t able to say anything; he just gave harry a very tight hug that can be translated as great gratitude. he only hugged louis back in response.

(if harry could’ve said anything else that moment, it would’ve been a classic “no, thank _you_ ,” because really, he wouldn’t have touched the damn sketchbook in the first place if louis didn’t bring it up and became a very ideal model for his future sketches.)

 

* * *

 

**green**

everything is green.

green is, in fact, the colour of harry’s eyes, the eyes that louis loves in the utmost sense, much to harry’s confusion.

whenever he meets his own gaze in the mirror, he sees nothing special about his eyes. he only sees the ghost of tear tracks welling down to his cheeks, finishing their drop onto his chin as if a concluding note. he only sees the ghost of his red-rimmed eyelids that marked awful nights and early mornings, causing him to stay immobile the day after.

he only sees how much of a mess he is, that’s what, so he doesn’t understand what anything else louis sees in them.

 

green is the vase louis set up near their kitchen window all those months ago.

every month, he changes the flowers sitting in them, and it makes harry feel very fond of the thought. louis can have tulips for this month, and have lilies in the next. when louis leaves for work every day, harry makes sure he never forgets to tend to their flowers, because he doesn’t want to disappoint louis.

(he had forgotten to tend the flowers one time, because his bad days attack so capriciously that it still takes him by surprise. harry didn’t leave his room all day, let alone answer the multitudes of messages and calls louis had given. he felt better when louis came home and soothed his sadness away.

when they drank tea, harry glanced over the window and remembered that _shit, the flowers are beginning to wilt_ and that sent him to another god-awful panic attack. louis went by his side immediately, as he stammered about not watering the flowers that day, and profusely apologizing to louis as much as his shaking voice could allow, but louis only shushed him and said that he couldn’t care less about the flowers. he said he cared more about harry, and nothing’s gonna change that, not even some dying flowers.)

harry likes glancing towards the kitchen window every morning as he takes his cup of tea, and he reminds himself to water the flowers and let them sit on the sunlight _just so_. he also likes looking at the flowers he painted on the vase, as reconciliation to basically abandoning the flowers for that one whole day, because that was the way he could only let go of that guilt. when he showed it to louis, louis only shook his head fondly, kissed him on the temple, and told him that he didn’t have to do that, or to even feel sorry for the incident. harry thought it was louis’ euphemism to not liking the design so his smile faltered a bit, and unfortunately louis noticed it.

(louis notices a lot of things about harry, even the things which harry himself does not even know.)

louis hugged him and said casually that he liked the painted flowers, by the way, and that harry was getting better in his artistic skills. harry had blushed in the slightest, and louis giggled at him and kissed him chastely on the lips.

 

green is harry’s favourite sweater, which is quite predictable because it makes the colour of his eyes pop out. that is also the reason louis loves the sweater, too.

he first wore it on their first date, when louis had invited him over to his place for dinner. he had been fussing over what to wear to his sister gemma on the phone, and throughout the whole ordeal he could even hear gemma’s eyes rolling because of his pathetic issue. but hey, what are big sisters for.

gemma told him to wear that sweater instead, and pair it with the trousers he always wore which he insisted was because it was very comfortable, but gemma told him that it made his legs (and his _behind_ ) look more ‘stunning.’ he swore he almost hung up on his sister right then and there, but if he did, he wouldn’t hear the fond “good luck on the date, harry,” she wished him. despite of his sister’s frank and teasing attitude, he loves her.

(she’s the only family he has left, and harry is more than grateful to still have her.)

when he finally locked his flat and went to the tube station, he felt a bit lightheaded because of panic. he almost embarrassed himself while getting a ticket for the train, but he mentally reprimanded himself for being _too pathetic, god damn it, just get the fucking ticket_ , so he did.

that night with louis went very beautifully, because louis understood him so much that he thanks every deity that he didn’t go up and leave harry when he could have. louis told him that he loved harry’s sweater, and teased him about letting louis borrow it sometimes. harry told louis that he could, if he wanted, before he even shut his mouth. he was quite flustered after saying so, but louis just smiled at him, and that made harry shrug off his embarrassment.

louis had walked with him to the station, bidding harry a good night and telling him that he will call once harry arrives on his flat. louis looked at him for a beat too long before kissing his cheek. the tube’s door opened at that moment, and harry was almost lost in the moment when louis pulled away chuckling, and telling him that he might miss his ride if he kept staring at louis like that. harry blushed and bid louis a good night before stepping through the doors.

(when he finally sat in the tube, harry looked at louis through the window as he went his way to exit the station, and ran his fingers lightly on his cheek, feeling the ghost of the warmth of louis’ lips.)

 

* * *

 

**yellow**

everything is yellow.

yellow is the sun that creeps through the windowsill of harry’s room, offering nothing but warmth, but in bad days, the light it gives becomes hostile to his eyes.

harry has spent a lot of days sulking behind layers and layers of blankets, refusing to move a single limb to get the day going for him. in all those days he also refuses to meet the sun as it rises and falls, signalling the end of another day wasted.

harry almost resorted to that kind of miserable life before louis. louis had given him a whole new meaning, and that makes him set aside his sadness even for the barest of moments just to become better for louis. in turn, louis never fails to acknowledge harry’s efforts, because although his sister also has had her fair share of efforts to encourage harry, there’s nothing quite like what louis does to him. it’s very profound, harry finds himself thinking, how much louis affects his life.

it is under that very same, very yellow sun that harry realized the most life-changing epiphany.

it was a perfect day for going to the park and picnicking, as louis had claim it. they went to the park nearby louis’ flat building for their fourth date, and it was nice because it was different from the other indoor venues they had for their previous dates. they settled on a spot underneath a shady tree, obscure enough to not be interrupted every once in a while, considering the amount of people milling about who were also in the park that day, but not obscure enough to be basking under the warm glow of the afternoon sun.

they had a basket and a blanket that day too, because louis insisted on sticking with tradition like most people and harry could do nothing past suggesting that using bags instead could’ve been more convenient. all of their food were homemade, and both of them prepared the food they brought. they had sandwiches, cut fruits, juice drinks, and water enough for the two of them. they settled easily on their spot, which harry had checked more than twice for ants or any other bugs. louis helped him and assured him that their place was clear, and laughed as harry still checked and still felt cautious.

they ate their meals in light chatter, talking about things here and there, about everything and nothing. harry felt more at home with louis, and even afforded himself to be quirky once in a while. he had made louis laugh for more than one time, and that was the most winning moment of his life.

(he’s not the poetic type, since that’s more of louis’ interest, but he swore the skies broke open when louis laughed.)

after louis’ laughter died down, and the companionable silence resumed, louis smiled at harry, and it took harry’s breath away.

it’s nothing about louis’ smile that never fails to elicit butterflies fluttering in his chest, nothing about the fact that he had made louis laugh so hard that harry had been proud of himself, nothing about how the surrounding sounds faded out in vacuum and his whole self diverted his attention to louis and louis only.

maybe it was because the sunlight hit louis just right, making his tan skin give off an effervescent glow against the superficial colour of the world surrounding them, or maybe because at that moment louis had a soft golden halo crowning his soft brown hair, or maybe because the universe had made harry look at louis in a different light, like this moment could only exist in some alignment of cosmos and other heavenly bodies, and harry thought that the universe permitted this one and only moment to him in the most unexpected moment, and that moment had made him think that he is _truly, deeply in love with louis tomlinson._

harry felt the gravity adjusting beneath him, all the while louis was still smiling at him, completely oblivious of this enigmatic, complex moment.

an afterthought suddenly hit harry: _this is it, this is the part where my life changes forever._

in a surge of heartfelt emotion, he kissed louis on the lips, and after recovering from being taken by surprise, louis kissed him back, and for the first time in his life, harry felt genuinely happy.

 

* * *

 

**red**

everything is red.

harry had loved the color red.

red is the colour of undying devotion, passion, unwavering love and emotion. red is the strong splash of life into harry’s broken soul, made whole again by louis. red is the colour which harry had been completely devoid of, but louis had painted his walls red, and those walls do not stand for hostility, but for how much louis had told him how much harry meant to him. red is the most momentous of colours – the strongest, deepest, most expressive, and most vigorous of all colours.

red is the colour of louis’ lips, as he’s biting them when he lolls his head back with his eyes closed tight. when he does open his eyes, it is with pupils blown wide, almost covering the blue-green of his irises.

red is every touch louis gives him, spelling out nothing but love and reassurance and trust, and every touch beckons harry to meet louis closer, closer, closer, until there’s no hairsbreadth of space left between them.

red is every sound louis makes against harry’s ear, those oh so sweet sounds that drive harry insane and desperate to hear them again and again.

red is the hovering hands on harry’s hair, harry’s back, harry’s arms, that can push him over the limit, but do not do so because louis wants to draw out every single moment, enough to commit each moment into the deepest of their memories.

red is every tender kiss, every meaningful touch, every gaze, every whisper, every sound, every second.

harry loved the colour red. when he told louis this, after coming back down from their highs, swallowed by blankets and pillows and warmth radiating from skin, louis laughs.

“i love the colour red too, harry. i do,” louis says.

harry looks at him. _i love you_ , he says, and by the way louis looks back at him with a gaze unwavering, he hears him say _and i love you too_.

 

* * *

 

**red**

everything is red.

harry hates the colour red.

red is the colour that harry is scared of the most. red is the colour of anger, hatred, fear, shattered hopes, broken promises, shouts of numbing pain. red is the colour of the walls harry reluctantly tears down with hysterical cries and broken sobs. red is the colour when the comforting warmth grows cold and transforms into an unrelenting monster, destroying everything in its wake within a blink of an eye. red is the colour of drowning into the noiseless void, and it keeps on pulling on harry’s bound legs and arms. it keeps pulling him down, down, down, down, down –

there is no end.

harry hates the colour red.

red is louis’ voice echoing in the flat, eliciting the continuous ringing in harry’s ears. louis keeps shouting and crying and everything just makes harry break down, but louis doesn’t care. louis never didn’t care about harry before.

red is the effect of harry trying to finally properly talk to louis of what _is_ happening, why is he avoiding him, is there something wrong.

red is the build-up of louis’ voice, only to come down in a heavy rain of bricks.

(if harry stayed quiet all this time, would it have been the same?)

red is the silence harry is dumbfounded with afterwards, and he can only call out quiet pleas of “i’m sorry, lou, i’m trying, i’m sorry,” a frivolous attempt against louis’ shattering voice.

red is the anger darting from louis’ eyes, spitting daggers and wildfires at harry, but behind those harry can see the exhaustion, the pity, anything that’s left in the louis he used to know.

(maybe harry is only being delusional.)

red is the times louis became farther and farther from harry’s hold, when louis started smiling at him without quite meeting his eyes, when louis refused to hold his hand whenever something made harry nervous when they’re outdoors, when louis insisted that nothing was changing, nothing was wrong, harry should stop worrying, when louis stopped looking at him as if the stars in his eyes faded away long before he even noticed.

red is when louis stopped going in his room and making him a cup of tea.

red is the colour of the pen louis used to write on post-its of _dinner in the fridge, will be back late_ ; _going out with friends, will be back late, don’t wait up_ ; _staying at my flat for the weekend for work, food in the fridge, will be back on sunday_.

harry doesn’t know when this started, or even why or how. he doesn’t even understand why this is happening, because he swears that for one moment louis claimed that he loved him back, and in the next moment louis has withdrawn everything he said.

he’s afraid to fight louis. besides, he thinks in the back of his mind, it’s not like he didn’t see this coming.

if louis left with silence instead, would it have hurt the same?

“i can’t do this anymore, harry. i’m sorry,” louis says.

red is the colour of surrender.

harry hates the colour red.

 

* * *

 

**colours**

everything is blue, green, yellow, red, orange, pink, and even violet.

these colours are aligned haphazardly on the cool tile of the sink counter, like richly-coloured poison berries waiting for a silent kill.

harry sits on the slightly-damp floor of the bathroom, his eyes warily staring at the bottles he’s taken out from their slumber in the closet. behind his wary gaze is stubborn determination, or can be read as desperation, for his matter.

the counter showcases the different labels and descriptions written clearly on the bottles, but harry couldn’t care less – he only cares for one thing: this is his escape.

the tears splotched on his cheeks have gone cool now. he stands up. when he looks at the mirror, he sees red-rimmed eyes contrasting wonderfully against his sickeningly pale skin.

(he deserves nothing more, nothing less, he thinks. reckless abandon is his fate.)

he glares at the figure for god knows how long.

at some point, he comes back to his senses, his gaze diverting to the bottles within his shaking hands’ reach. _this is it_ , his stupid brain muses, _this is the one-way ticket you’ve been waiting for._

he swallows pill after pill, bottle after bottle, drinking water be damned. his palms are continually full of these mesmerizing colours, dunking them into his mouth in open invitation.

he feels dizzy in the absence of restriction he is offered, also with the substances’ effect crawling into his veins. he feels dizzy in being finally free, or being finally held down by his weakness – he can’t determine, he’s too far away to care.

he sees the figure in the mirror drifting away in accelerating motion – slowly inching away at first, until it fully backs away from the mirror. he feels numb.

he faintly hears his phone ringing somewhere in the living room before he collapses on the floor.

 

* * *

 

**gray**

everything was gray.

gray was the light colour hugging louis’ sharp blue irises – the most beautiful scene he’ll ever witness in his short life.

(he is very grateful for this.)

gray was the mist and snow covering up their windows during thunderstorms and winter, matching the softness of the fort of blankets he and louis built up, momentarily unaware of the world existing outside their own.

gray was the snow falling and heavily resting on the roofs and on the ground in december. gray was also the smoke billowing from the candle after louis blew out the flame, as the candle stood quietly on the cake harry made for louis every year.

gray was the favourite sweater of louis that was already a couple of years old. the sweater always made louis look like he’s swimming in it, which made harry love it more, too.

(he loved it even more when it’s bunched up underneath louis’ armpits along with the shirt he’s wearing, revealing the beautiful tan skin ever so sensitive in harry’s touch – coaxing a soundtrack of beautiful noises from louis’ bitten red lips.)

gray was also the helplessness in harry’s voice on that drawn-out night, far volumes away from louis’ quivering, sharp shouts. gray was the fog covering his eyes during that night, tears threatening to fall while harry fought hard not to let them spill. louis didn’t even fight against his own, but his eyes managed to be as frightening and hard as ever.

(he used to be good at reading louis through his eyes, but he couldn’t even look at them that night.)

gray was his sight fading into nothingness, his hands losing the grip on the countertop, his body hitting the floor with a hard thud, his lungs starting to heave, to just keep breathing.

gray was his eyes closing, his eyelashes fanning his pale cheeks, draining out of life.

gray was his last slumber.

 

* * *

 

**white**

everything is white.

white is the blinding sunlight peeking through the curtains, while his eyes struggle to open.

white is the room he is staying in. white walls, white ceilings, a dirty white-almost-gray door, with its paint slightly chipping in the corners. the curtains of the other windows near the door are drawn down, but harry sees the slightest silhouettes of other people outside the room.

white is the hospital gown he is wearing, with the hospital logo printed in front.

white is the tape that’s holding down the iv line into his system, dripping precious vitamins for him to stay alive.

white is his hands laying limp against his sides, and –

white is the hand holding his right.

white is louis sleeping next to him, sitting on the visiting chair provided. his sleeping position will make his neck and shoulders hurt like a bitch, and harry thinks of waking him up so that louis could sleep more peacefully.

but then he remembers the hostile image of louis from that night, and he pushes that thought down his throat.

for some reason, louis starts to stir awake, the fingers of the hand holding harry’s starting to stretch, and his body starting to do the same while not letting go.

after he blinks a couple of times to adjust his vision, louis meets harry’s eyes and gasps softly.

“are you alright, harry? do you need some water? is it too cold for you?” louis starts to sit up, fussing over harry. harry can only give a short grunt before mumbling, “’m fine, lou. just. i feel tired.”

louis sags back on his seat and sighs. he rubs his thumb against the back of harry’s hand. “okay,” he whispers. he bites his lip.

they fall into heavy silence. harry’s pulse mechanically beating through the computer echoes against the stillness of the room. the voices outside are muffled, making harry’s breathing audible enough for his own ears.

“i’m sorry, harry,” louis whispers. he’s not meeting harry’s eyes; he’s looking at the floor. his hand is still holding harry’s.

harry gives his hand a soft squeeze, making louis look up at him.

“i love the colour white,” harry says to  him.

louis gives a soft laugh and squeezes back harry’s hand. he kisses harry lightly on the forehead and rests his head on their intertwined hands.

**Author's Note:**

>   * i am aware that this seems like a huge halsey reference, but tbh i just realised that when i was halfway doing this lol
>   * i am god-awful at angst pls bear
>   * i am never writing 4k in one sitting again. im a lightweight.
> 

> 
> thanks for reading! xxx


End file.
